You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

You are who you choose to be.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

The dreamer in her Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it. That moment the dreamer in me Fell in love with her and I knew it

The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

If you listen to music every day, you will strengthen your soul.

Don't take it as a struggle. Consider it as your pursuit for the unseen rewards.

We had been to a couple really awkward office Christmas parties, including one at our production company. It's just a really interesting place, an event that hadn't really been captured.

I never met Putin, I don't know who Putin is. He said one nice thing about me. He said I'm a genius. I said thank you very much to the newspaper and that was the end of it. I never met Putin.

I’d rather die than you not be by my side.

Lots of things wrong with America, but Hitler ain't going to fix them.

Money brings honor, friends, conquest, and realms.

You're in fine temper," Raffin said. "Your hair is blue," she snapped back.

But our wounds are part of who we are...and there is nothing left to chance....And pain's the pen that writes the songs....That call us forth to dance

gardening is something more than a pastime; it is a religion.